


the words you picked so carefully keep coming out all wrong

by aphrodite_mine



Category: Parks and Recreation
Genre: Alternate Universe, Community: femslash11, F/F, Female Character of Color
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-05
Updated: 2011-10-05
Packaged: 2017-10-24 08:20:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/261170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aphrodite_mine/pseuds/aphrodite_mine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Several things that could have happened and one that does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the words you picked so carefully keep coming out all wrong

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gloss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloss/gifts).



> Thanks, again, to prozacpark. Again and always.

  
[source](http://weheartit.com/entry/11181892).

\--

The Perkins drive to Pawnee for a week during the summer of Ann's fifteenth year. Her little brother alternates kicking her seat with reaching for her just-brushed hair for the duration of the drive aside from fifteen minutes when he either falls asleep or forgets that his purpose is to make Ann want to jump out of moving vehicles. Once they get there, her dad in full tour guide mode, her mom amused and playing along, there is -- big surprise -- nothing to do, like, at _all_ , and despite Ann's mom's best efforts, she spends most of the week watching MTV in the hotel room.

They tour the city hall (Ann's mom gasping and covering Matt's eyes) and play in the park and it gets really hot and muggy out so the local government closes the pool. It's basically the worst vacation _ever_ (they stare at her here, at her mom and dad holding hands, at her brother who has inexplicably darker skin than she does, at her hair, in a way that the people in Indianapolis don't ever quite dare to do) -- aside from maybe the brunch they have at JJ's -- and Ann willfully doesn't think about Pawnee until years later when she graduates from college and casts the job net all over South Central Indiana, and sure enough.

If she had stayed on vacation another week (practically torture) Ann would have run into Andy Dwyer on the way to pick up a soda from the gas station. He would have laughed loudly and stuck out his hand, his voice sticking in her head on the drive home, "You're _really_ pretty," all surprised, but his eyes telling her that wasn't a bad thing.

If she had stayed _two_ weeks, she would have met Leslie. Ann, bored out of her mind and MTV summer programming on repeats, would have wandered to the Pawnee City Library, and brushed hands with a very angry Leslie Knope, returning her own books three weeks late, "I was in Washington! As in, _the capital of the United States_ , duh. Heard of it?", rummaging in her pockets for the twenty-cent fine, and shooting a glare at Ann, the innocent bystander.

Instead, the Perkins leave after a week, return to Indianapolis where the pools don't close for hot weather ( _honestly_!) and there's a mall and a water park and Ann doesn't need to drag Matt along wherever she goes because it isn't "vacation" or "family time."

Instead, Ann meets Lucy.

\--

Their first day back, Ann ignores her mom's loudly expressed desire that Ann unpack and sort her laundry in favor of the pool. Swimsuit (one piece, white with yellow flowers), flip flops (blue), scrunchie (hot pink), sun dress (tie-dye). She feels a bit weird, still, about the scar across her hip from the bicycle accident last summer, that shock of white that doesn't change no matter how much she lies in the sun. Summer, she thinks, is a really good time for looking good and feeling good about it. It's something about the sun, sinking into her skin, some vitamin. She read it in a magazine.

She walks to the pool, because it's only two blocks away and there is no chance in hell that her mom's going to drop everything, pack Matt up, and take her (even if it _is_ really hot and Ann's sweaty by the time she undoes the gate).

The water is packed -- kids from around the neighborhood splashing each other and using arm floaties to keep up in the shallow end, the teenagers (most of them older than Ann) filling up the deep end with teasing, creative dives, and races. Parents line the side, occupying the plastic chairs that have been around since the dark ages, unpacking lunches, applying sunblock. Ann wishes for a short moment that her mom were with her, nagging her to reapply sunscreen every two hours. She wishes longer that her friends didn't abandon her every summer with trips to the Great Lakes, to the Tetons, to Florida, coming back various shades of pink and tan and brown. She picks out an unoccupied chair and holds on to the arm while she kicks her shoes off, shimmies out of her dress. The air is good and hot and thick all around her.

There's a new lifeguard.

This is the sort of thing that Ann wouldn't have minded noticing right away. Maybe even ten minutes ago when she was still deciding what bikini to wear. Because the old lifeguard was just that -- old. His wiry chest hair, gleaming in the sunlight, looking out over the pool from behind sunglasses. But this one.

She's young, to start with.

She's wearing a sleek black bikini, split by a smooth stomach, tanned to perfection. Sunglasses, so Ann can't manage to remain staring because _oh my god what if she's looking at me_ , and she glances back quickly and sees a rainbow bracelet clinging wetly to her wrist, to the wrist of the really hot young female lifeguard, and _rainbows can mean anything, right, but_. Ann bites her lip, unable to stand the heat any longer. She turns around to step down into the water, but -- _oh god what if she's watching me, my ass in this swimsuit_ \-- she's in the water soon enough, feeling blush creep up her cheeks and spread downward over her chest. It feels like a sunburn, but Ann shivers.

As soon as her body slides under the water, Ann half-forgets about the lifeguard. She lets herself sink to the bottom of the pool, feeling her inner temperature change by small degrees. Bubbles slip out of her mouth and right when she's almost empty, Ann kicks her way to the surface, the sunlight filtering down through the artificial blue.

She hears the whistle blowing as she nears the surface, tries to look around while flipping her hair out of her face. "Quit running, guys," the lifeguard says, right as Ann looks up at her despite the glare. "Seriously," she mutters to herself, and in that moment, maybe forever after, Ann loves her.

\--

She goes to the pool every day that week, alternating suits for the first few days but too nervous to try out her blue-striped bikini because _maybe in a few days. It just doesn't feel right._ On the third day, her mother tries to palm off Matt for a few hours which means Ann negotiates a trade for kitchen clean up and _finally_ unpacking to get out of it in order to get to the pool before the sun starts to set.

The lifeguard -- _the girl_ \-- isn't there every time Ann goes -- sometimes the spot up on the chair is taken up by that same old lifeguard as last year, flipping slowly through a paperback and looking like jumping into the water to save a drowning kid is just about the last thing he wants to do.

But then, on Saturday when Ann is back to her yellow and white suit for the third time, the lifeguard ( _not_ the old one) slips down from the chair right as Ann tucks into her towel, the girl ducking and smiling as she catches droplets from Ann's hair in her eyes. "You come here a lot," she says, settling her hands on her hips, where her suit has adjusted and re-adjusted during the day, settling just below the bone.

"I like to swim." _I like to swim?_ Ann smiles, despite wanting to kick herself in the foot.

"Well, that's obvious." She laughs, a loud chuckling sound that doesn't look at all inappropriate on her thin frame. "Um, it's also pretty obvious that you are -- and have been -- checking me out." She tries to catch Ann's eyes, smiles.

Ann pulls the towel a little tighter around herself, tries to track down her flip-flops.

"I'm wrong, then? Tell me I'm wrong." The lifeguard stands easy, shifting her weight, hand coming forward to flick at Ann's hair, dripping still. Ann sees the bracelet again, the way the skin underneath is a little lighter. She sees how _comfortable_ the girl is, just standing here, in front of her. She, an exaggerated pause too late, realizes that she's checking her out. Again.

"You're not wrong."

She grins. "The pool closes at nine, and I have to clean up, but if you want to meet me after that would be cool."

"Cool," Ann nods, wondering if the girl's skin is as warm as it looks.

(It is.)

\--

She looks up in the weirdly filtered light of the pool at night, leaning towards the water with a net in her hands. "I'm Lucy, by the way," she shouts over the fence at Ann, who smiles and lets herself in.

"Ann." She slips off her shoe and dips her toe in the water, watching as Lucy bends down, her jeans stretching to cover her ass, watching the little strip of skin that sneaks free as Lucy's shirt shifts up, her shirt itself damp where it covers the black bikini. "They let you do all this by yourself? Aren't you a little young?"

"I'm as old as you are, Ann," Lucy does a quick jump to her feet, tossing the net in the air, letting it drop to the cement, water spraying in an arc and effectively ruining any _cool and sophisticated_ look that Ann had (despite being basically limited to sneakers, cutoffs and a band t-shirt that her friend picked up during last year's spring break). It's too hot for hair spray, so Ann's ponytail is looking a little limp.

"I guess you are," she says, trying to sound (maybe) a little sexy, but totally fails because now Ann can see Lucy full on, and she manages to look completely and effortlessly amazing, her hair still a little damp from the pool, her tank top clinging in all the right places, and Ann's words dry up in a sort of gulping noise.

Lucy kind of cough-laughs, grabbing Ann's hand to take her towards the office. "Help me lock up," she says, and the way she says it makes Ann forget all about how you're not supposed to kiss on the first date ( _oh god, oh wow, this is a date_ ) and when Lucy backs her up against the office door, leans in, Ann can only think about how much she wants this. How the mouth and body against hers apply just the right amount of pressure, how Lucy feels like a day at the beach -- a real beach, not just a lake or the pool. Ann's friends have told her about how the sand stays with you for days, stuck in weird places, sticking to your skin, and Ann wants nothing more than for Lucy to stick to her.

\--

It's a good summer after all, despite the trip to Pawnee and her friends being seriously MIA. But summer has to end, and despite exchanging numbers and addresses, the different schools prove a little too much for adolescents with short attention spans. Winter hits, and Ann forgets all about Lucy (mostly, except at night, and well, sometimes during the day) until summer rolls back around. The pool opens on Memorial Day, and Ann is there at the gate, wearing a new swim suit (red), flip flops (blue), and jean skirt.

Lucy isn't there, and the water is too cold, and it starts storming. Ann walks home in the rain, and when she gets home, dripping wet, there's a postcard waiting for her on the kitchen table. "Hey, Ann," it says, "My dad got called into active duty, so we're living at the base. Still think about you. Have a great summer. Lucy." And a little heart, and XOXO half-buried under the postmark.

For about three days, Ann forgets all about the colder months when Lucy lingered firmly at the back of her mind. She's going to die, probably.

(It feels worse when her mom tells her "You'll fall in and out of love a hundred times before you're done," though, later, it helps.)

\--

After Ann graduates, she nurses in several different towns for several years until the hiring ad for Pawnee crosses her doorstep and tingles old memories of horrible vacations. She gets the job, of course she does -- who the hell wants to live in Pawnee? -- and scouts for a home with a little trepidation. _This is just short term, like the others_ , she tells herself, shaking her head when she turns down the wrong street and catches a family of raccoon climbing out of a dumpster.

She celebrates the finished moving job by hitting the nearest bar where a band called Threeskin is playing, and _oh god_ it is wince-worthy, but the music is actually really good (as are the drink deals). Ann goes home to her newly (mostly) un-packed house with the lead singer, a seriously cute guy named Andy, which really. Ann and Andy? It's probably karma, or destiny or one of those other words she can't remember because _wow, drunk_.

He stays the night and doesn't ever really leave. And that doesn't suck as much as Ann thinks it should.

It might have gone differently. So much might have gone differently. If she had stayed home that night, sipped coffee and started unpacking her books, she would have gone to the grocery store the next morning (instead of being hung over) and bumped carts with a cute -- if a little high strung -- blonde. "Oh," Leslie would have said, peering at Ann's groceries, "Good to the last drop, huh? I have a coupon for that!" She would have flipped through her handbag and handed Ann a healthy assortment of colorful papers, grinning like she'd just rescued a small kitten from a tree. If she hadn't brought Andy home, if she decided to explore Pawnee a little more instead of hitting that particular bar, she would have gone to the Ladies and Ladies Night at The Bulge on Tuesday. She would have seen Lucy there, recognizable almost instantly, with a pang and a sigh. Lucy, there, dancing with a drink in her hand, smiling.

Instead, at that moment, at that time, she met Andy.

\--

After years of pits and parks, of Harvest Festivals and working part time in Pioneer Hall with her best friend (a cute -- if a little high strung -- blonde), Ann finds herself attempting to run (or at least help) Leslie's campaign for city council. It's a bad idea, possibly. Not Leslie running; Ann can't think of anyone else she'd want representing her and getting things done. No, the problem is that Ann's more of a follower than a leader, and getting Leslie to take her ideas into account is a bit of an uphill battle.

Tom has (lovingly) convinced Leslie that the Snakehole is a _super professional_ location for campaign meetings, that they can _totally_ conduct important conversations over an order of onion rings and Sprite (and a maybe a dash or two of rum, you know to make the politics go down a little easier?). Leslie remains stuck on the idea, despite the fact that at least once every two weeks the meeting devolves into a drunken dance party fueled by Snake Juice, which Ann is almost positive has been banned by the health council.

Ann tries to avoid that craziness when she can: not remembering exactly, but more sensing that the times she has indulged have resulted in bad news. This week, she uses the old aversion tactic of seeing the server coming with a tray full of shots (they always seem to come when an important issue is on the table, an important issue that they never seem to get back around to) and suddenly needing to use the rest room.

If she hadn't dashed off, she might have caught Leslie by the waist (first drink swoon) as she stumbled, turned her head in a movement that was (she would admit) all-too-easy, and kissed her. If Ann hadn't wandered to the bar to order something a little less toxic, she might have leaned across the table to attempt to save the paperwork and brushed Andy's hand with her own.

She doesn't do those things, however. Instead, as she sits down at the bar recognition and memory hit her body like a sack of Sweetum's, with a pang and a sigh. "I'll have a martini, whatever you recommend," she manages to say, her voice only a little shaky.

"For you, darlin'? Something sweet, I think."

Instead, she met Lucy.


End file.
